Bubbles of the Foam

by F. W. Bain

II

But Babhru stood exactly where he was, like a picture painted on a wall, hardly heeding their departure, gazing at Aranyání. And as he watched her, tears rose up suddenly and stood, as if to blind him, in his eyes, springing from the well of the very ecstasy of compassion within his heart. For she lay half crouching, half fallen on the ground, exactly as they had set her down, never moving, and resembling a body that is all but dead. And her face, that was turned towards him, looked absolutely strange to him, so marvellously had it altered since he saw it last. For, as it seemed, youth and joy had fled from it, leaving it to be as it were a very battle-ground for grief and age, and passion and shame, and humiliation, and weariness, and despair. And instead of her forest garments, she was magnificently dressed, and yet her clothing was ill-arranged, and disordered, and very dusty; and her hair was all dishevelled, and floated loose about her head, as if to match and imitate the wild disorder of her soul within. And yet, somehow or other, she seemed for all that in his eyes even more beautiful than ever, with a beauty that appalled him as he saw it, for she was utterly unlike herself, as if her own soul had been suddenly changed into another, making its envelope into something other than it was, to suit the alteration. And gradually as Babhru watched her, his hair stood up upon his body, as if with fright, and anticipation of something coming, that he did not understand.

So he stood silent, watching her, forgetful of himself, with a soul that yearned to comfort her and soothe her, and caress her and console her, yet utterly unable, and half fearing, to say anything at all. And in the silence, gradually dread began to creep all over him, as he saw her continue, lying absolutely still, and yet every now and then breathing, very slowly and with difficulty, like one that is suffering an agony of pain. And at last, after a long while, he moved a little nearer, and he said, with timidity and emotion: O Aranyání, alas! thou art suffering. And dost thou think I can endure to see thee suffer? At least, at least, thou hast returned, no matter how. O alas! for all thy suffering, I only am to blame; for well I understood, I was wrong to abandon thee, and leave thee as a prey. But at least, thou hast returned, and only just in time: for hadst thou stayed away another day, I could not have endured. I thought thee dead, for day by day, I waited, and day by day, thou didst not come: and each night was longer, and more awful than the last. And I sought thee in every quarter of the wood, but thou wert not to be found. And now, lo! there before my eyes, hardly to be believed, thou art; and now I am almost ready once more to die, for joy, that is mingled, I know not how, with an agony of grief. And yet, I blame myself, selfish that I am, for being even able to rejoice at all, while thou art suffering. Ah! only tell me what to do, to share thy grief, or take it all upon myself.

And as he spoke, he leaned towards her, and looked, and lo! a tear rolled suddenly from her eye, and fell upon the ground: but she never stirred or spoke. And again he said, with difficulty and hesitation: Aranyání, dost thou think, dost thou really think, thou art guilty in my eyes, or in any way to blame, because ruffians, attracted by thy beauty, came and carried thee away? Is it any fault in the lotus, if the traveller that sees it, plucks it, and wears it for a moment in his hair, only to throw it presently away, and trample it underfoot? Alas, it is not thou, but myself that I condemn, I only, that am guilty, and all the more, that whereas now I ought to weep with thee, I am, on the contrary, so transported with delight to see thee, returned to me no matter how, that I am almost ready to abandon the body out of joy. Or art thou fearful, lest I should torture thee with curiosity, or question, or reproach of any kind? Ah! no, listen now, and I will tell thee. Thou shalt think, if thou wilt, of all that has occurred to thee as nothing but a dream, from which thou hast awoken. Only a dream, from which thou hast awoken. And I, that never knew it, will forget it, as utterly and completely as thyself: and it is already buried in oblivion, and resembles a thing that has never come about, and had better not have been.

And again he leaned towards her, as if he were a culprit that begged her to forgive him, and lo! he saw the tears rolling from her eyes in a stream, as if something in his words were like a knife in her heart. But still she never spoke, and never stirred. And once again he said, as if with entreaty: Aranyání, thou canst not imagine, even in a dream, what happiness is mine. See! thou art agitated, and it must be, very weary. And now, then, I will lead thee, or if thou wilt, carry thee, home. And there thou shalt sleep, absolutely undisturbed, for to-night, and to-morrow, and as long as thou shalt choose. And all the while, I will watch without, and bring thee food, and do everything as thou wilt, at thy bidding; and above all, guard, and protect thee, from any fresh attempt. Woe to the man who shall attempt to molest thee any more! And so shalt thou live, exactly as thou wilt, with me for thy servant. And very soon, even the memory of that which now distresses thee will fade out of thy soul. And there will be absolutely nobody to make thee feel ashamed, or in any way whatever bring trouble to the quiet of thy soul. For as to thy father, when he discovered thy disappearance, he came to me, thinking I had stolen thee. And when he saw instantly, by my frenzy, he was wrong, all at once he cried out: Mother and daughter, mother and daughter: this is a stab in the dark from Jaya. And I know not what he meant. But I think that his heart broke within him, for after a day or two, he died.